Chapter 2 - So Fresh and So Clean
We passed the open nursery door, the room looking even more terrifying through my misty eyes, its pastel glow haunting. Her grip on my wrist tightened just slightly as we turned the corner. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me I wasn’t walking anywhere on my own anymore.
She led me into the bathroom. It was just as pristine and curated as the rest of the house. Warm lighting. White tile. Hand towels folded with surgical precision. A scented candle flickered in the corner, throwing cinnamon and shame into the air.
Without a word, she led me to the toilet and stopped. “Stand here,” she said calmly, motioning to the porcelain bowl like it was something ancient and irrelevant.
I blinked at it, confused. “What…”
She didn’t let me finish.
“Get a good look,” she said, her voice firm but not raised. “Because this will be the last time you see one from this angle.”
I stared. Then turned to her.
“You won’t be using it anymore,” she said. “Toilets are for adults. Not for you.”
I laughed. Just a little. A dry, broken sound. “You’re joking.”
She didn’t respond. Just gave my hand a squeeze.
“You’ll go in your diapers, Ethan. Your wets and messes. No asking. No warning. When it happens, it happens.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she said confidently, then shrugged with another smirk. “Eventually.”
She let go of my hand then, but only to guide me to the sink.
“Look at yourself.” She commanded, standing behind me. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it.
Tears clung to my lashes. My cheeks were blotchy, flushed in patches from crying during the spanking. My lips were slack, trembling just slightly as I breathed through my nose. It was the face of someone unraveling. Someone who’d already begun to break.
I blinked hard, trying to pull my gaze away.
“Uh-uh,” she chided gently, guiding my chin back with two fingers. “No hiding. Look at what you’ve become.”
I stared. Hating what I saw. Hating her even more for making me see it.
She let the silence stretch before murmuring, “And we’re just getting started.”
“I have so many more ways of breaking you, Ethan.”
The way she said it—so calm, confident, not even cruel—terrified me more than if she’d yelled.
I bit down hard, jaw clenched. Heat surged behind my eyes again. Not grief this time. Anger. I could feel it crawling up my spine, pooling in my fists.
I could shove her. Just enough to get through the doorway.
I could make it to the street, maybe hitch a ride. Go anywhere. Anywhere but here.
Her eyes caught mine in the mirror.
“Oh, you’re thinking about it,” she said, almost cheerfully. Reading my face like a book. “Pushing me. Running. Fighting your way out like a big, brave boy.”
“Go ahead.” she said, spreading her arms and stepping to the side.
She stepped closer, her voice low. “But where would you go, Ethan? Hmm? Claire won’t take you back. You think she’s going to forget what you did? Forget the pictures? The lies? You don’t have a job. You don’t have a car. You barely have clean underwear. ”
Her gaze flicked down my body with mock consideration. “Though I suppose that last one’s no longer your problem.”
She reached past me and grabbed something near the edge of the sink, then a small thump on the counter.
She smiled in the mirror, just a little.
“Let’s talk about your mouth,” she said evenly, flicking on the water, letting it set the music to what was about to happen. “The things that came out of it earlier? That was disgraceful. The yelling. The profanity.”
“You don’t get to use big boy words anymore,” she said, running the bar under the warm water, lathering the soap. “No more swearing. No more crude talk. Not even grown-up adjectives.”
I glanced at her in the mirror.
She met my eyes, unblinking.
“From now on,” she said, her voice calm and certain, “you’ll say yucky, not disgusting. Instead of ass, it’s tushy, bum-bum, or botty. You’ll make tinkles, oopsies, stinkies, and boom-booms in your diapy. Got it?”
She let the silence hang as her eyes dropped slowly between my legs.
“And that?” she said, lips curling faintly. “That’s your wee-wee. Not a dick. Not your cock. Not your manhood. Just your little wee-wee.”
I flinched. She wasn’t done.
“Oh, and fuck? We don’t say that word anymore. You’ll say fudgie-wudgie. Or better yet, nothing at all. Because babies don’t need words like that. They just whimper.”
She turned off the water and held the softened bar in one hand, bringing it up, inches from my face, bubbles and drops dripping down to the sink below.
I stiffened. My throat tightened. “Please…” I whispered. “Please don’t.”
Her tone didn’t change. “Mouth. Open.”
My fists curled at my sides. My breath hitched.
“I…come on…this is—”
“Do you need to go back over my knee?” she growled, the edge in her voice like a snap of cold steel.
“N-no! Please! I…I’ll be good!!”
“Then open your dirty little mouth.”
There was no thunder in her voice now. Just control. Solid. Unrelenting. Unshakeable.
My knees felt weak. My lips parted, just barely.
My jaw trembled as it opened the rest of the way, and before I could even brace for it, the softened bar of soap pushed past my lips and landed squarely on my tongue.
The taste hit instantly. Thick, bitter, and floral, like perfume mixed with chalk and regret. I gagged, the back of my throat convulsing as she tilted the bar, grinding it gently but firmly against the surface of my tongue.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she muttered, gripping the back of my head to hold it still while she scrubbed the surface of my tongue. “You had no problem using that filthy little mouth of yours earlier.”
The soap scraped against my teeth as she began to scrub in earnest. Circling. Pressing. Pushing the taste deep into every corner.
“Every time you say a naughty word,” she said, voice smooth and level, “this is what you can expect.”
I whimpered, my eyes watering now, breath fluttering through my nose in helpless gasps. My hands twitched at my sides, wanting to resist, but too afraid to try.
“You don’t get to speak like a man anymore,” she continued, her tone never rising, never faltering. “That’s another privilege you’ve lost.”
The bar dragged across the roof of my mouth. Bitter, sticky film coated my tongue as I whimpered behind it. I tried to pull away, but she caught my chin with her other hand and held me firm.
“You’ll speak in babytalk now. No more hard R’s. No more grown-up cadence. You’ll lisp. You’ll babble. And if you ever forget…” She swirled the soap in a slow, deliberate circle. “...I’ll remind you like this. Again. And again.”
My eyes watered. I shook my head, or tried to. The bar followed me, smearing my protest back across my tongue.
“You’ll ask for your baba with a pout. You’ll say ‘pwease’ instead of please, and ‘hawt’ instead of heart. I want wobbly, mush-mouf sentences. You’ll sound just like the silly wittle baby you are.”
The soap pressed heavier now, grinding slightly against my molars.
“And don’t even think about using a big-boy voice,” she whispered near my ear. “Because every time I hear a proper syllable, every time you slip and sound like someone who thinks he still has dignity…” She let the bar pause there. “...we’ll come right back here.”
She pulled the soap out at last, slow and dragging, leaving my mouth raw. Froth clung stubbornly, stretching in strings between the bar and my lip. Ropes of drool and suds slipped free, dripping down my chin and spattering against my chest as I gasped for breath.
“Now,” she said, “what do we say to Gam-Gam when we’re sowwy for being a nasty wittle potty-mouth?”
I coughed, the bitter taste crawling down my throat as I made the mistake of swallowing. My lips were slick with lather, and my eyes stung with shame.
“Go on,” she prompted, soap bubbling at the ready in her hand. “Tell Gam-Gam you’re sorry.”
I swallowed hard. My throat felt raw. “I… I’m s-s-sorry for being—”
She inclined her head, eyebrows raised. “Was that an ‘R’ I just heard?” she asked harshly.
I flinched. “N-no, I didn’t mean—”
She tilted the bar toward my lips. “Open.”
I shook my head, panic rising. “P-please, Gam-Gam, don’t—”
“Mouth. Open.” She repeated, flat and unsympathetic, as if she were already bored of my begging. Then she said it a little sharper, “Now.”
My lips quivered, but I obeyed, parting them with a miserable whimper.
The soap slid back in, filling my mouth with its bitter sting. She scrubbed harder this time, short, scolding strokes, as if polishing the disobedience off my tongue. My eyes watered, froth spilling out in sudsy trails down my chin until, at last, she let me come back for air.
She shoved the soap back in without hesitation, scrubbing harder this time. Short, scolding strokes. The bitter sting coated my tongue, froth building until it spilled past my lips in sudsy ropes that dribbled down my chin. My eyes watered, throat gagging, but she didn’t so much as flinch.
When she finally pulled it free, I gasped for air, coughing around the taste.
“No! Please! P-pweez…I’m sowwy! I’m s-s-sowwy!” I whimpered, foam leaking from my mouth like a drooly baby. I had to focus deliberately on each word, dragging them out in a humiliating lisp. “I’m sowwy for bein’ a…uh…a nasty…wittle—”
"For being a nasty little potty mouth." She finished. "Now say it."
"Fowr being a nasty wittle potty mouth..."
“Aww,” she crooned, though her smile had that same glint of cruelty behind it, “unfortunately, the correct word for you was mouff.” She clicked her tongue and gave both my cheeks a few light taps. “So now you get to open your wittle mouff again…”
“N-no, please…” I whimpered, bottom lip quivering. I tried to shrink away, but she was faster. Her hand found my jaw with that terrifying ease again, and her fingers squeezed until my lips parted in reflex.
Then she tilted her head. “And not even a pweez? Tsk. You really are just begging for more soap, aren’t you?”
The soap slid in. She scrubbed, deep and fast, dragging it across my gums, under my tongue, along the roof of my mouth. My eyes flooded instantly as the lather grew thick, clinging to my throat. I gagged, coughed, but she only pressed firmer.
“Disobedient,” she muttered. “Unteachable. Mouth like a sailor, manners like a spoiled brat.”
I gagged again, bubbles spilling past my lips.
Then she stopped. Not out of mercy, but control. Her hand retreated slowly, letting the soaked bar rest in her palm as I coughed and whimpered, drool and suds sliding down my chin in humiliation.
“You done?” she asked calmly.
“Then tell me what you are,” she said. “And be very, very careful with your words.”
My lips quivered. I knew she was waiting for me to screw up again.
“I’m… a nasty wittle potty mouf…” I said, my voice high and broken, still laced with suds.
“I…I’m s-sowwy…” I sniffled.
She leaned in, eyebrow raised.
“I’m sowwy fow being a mean, bad, naughty baby who doesn’t know how to talk pwoper no more…” I stammered.
That earned a smile. “There we go. That’s more like it.”
I lowered my eyes, cheeks burning. My body sagged with exhaustion. I looked pathetic. I felt pathetic. Just standing there, face dripping with soapy spit, words stripped of dignity, forced to lisp and babble for approval like a brainless toddler.
“No, no! Sowwy! Sowwy! I meant…yes, Gam-Gam!” I quickly corrected, hastily lifting my hand. She guided my thumb into my mouth with slow, exaggerated care.
“There,” she murmured, watching me suck. “Much better. Just like a good baby. Now you sit there, think about your nasty mouf, and suck that thumb like you mean it.”
I whimpered, drooling out the sides of my mouth.
She couldn’t help but laugh maniacally at my pitiful display. The man she so loathed for her daughter, broken and humiliated in front of her. She stepped forward, brushing a soap bubble from my chin with her thumb, “Now…” she said, leaning in, “tell Gam-Gam why you need your diapers.”
Her eyes locked on mine in the mirror.
“Go on,” she said, still squatting beside me like a lioness watching a trapped cub. “Say it.”
I shook my head, but it barely moved. The thumb was still in my mouth, frothy with soap. I could taste shame in every bubble, every slurp.
“Use your words, little man,” she coaxed, her voice syrupy-sweet, condescending. “Your new words.”
“I… I d-don’t know what to say…”
She smirked. “Oh, I think you do. You're not going to get those big-boy pants back, and you're certainly not going potty like one. So you better ask for what you need.”
I whimpered. My hands clenched in my lap, trembling. My knees were pressed together, but the cold air against my still-exposed backside made it feel even more vulnerable.
“Beg for diapers, little man,” she said, the edge of amusement cutting into her voice.
I blinked up at her. My face was burning.
“P-pweez…” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I… I need a… a diapy…”
She cupped a hand behind her ear. “What was that?”
I bit back a sob. “Pweez, Gam-Gam… I… I need my diapy…”
“And why,” she prompted, like it was a nursery rhyme I was supposed to know by heart.
I swallowed, my chin quivering. “B-because I wasn’t a good man…”
She smiled then, broad and cruel.
“That’s right,” she purred, brushing my cheek with the back of her fingers. “You weren’t. But maybe…” She leaned in close, her breath warm on my ear. “…maybe if you fill enough diapers for me, you’ll make a better baby than you ever were a man.”
I broke. Fully. Shoulders heaving. Wet-faced. Hiccuping around my thumb, unable to look at her.
And all the while, she just nodded, pleased, like she was seeing exactly what she'd hoped for.
“You’ll make stinkies in them. Tinkles. Boom-booms. You’ll squish when you sit, and cry when you leak. And every bit of it, little man, is earned.”
She wiped her hands on a towel, finally, but didn’t take her eyes off me. She kissed the top of my head. A mockery of affection. Her smile was slow, delighted.
“And if you really try your best,” she said, circling behind me, “maybe one day you can try to be a real adult again. But until then? Diapers. Babytalk. Thumb-sucking. Accidents. That’s your life now, dear.”
Her hand landed on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.
“Now, off to your new room. Let’s get you dressed for your new life.”
I didn’t protest, didn’t curse, didn’t even flinch. All the hatred I’d carried for her, all the things I’d dreamed of saying, shouting, throwing, all of it curdled into something hollow. She had broken me in record time. And what scared me more than anything was that she knew it.
I could run. I could swing at her, tear the smug expression off her face…but where would I go? Kathy was right. Claire wouldn’t take me back. She might not even open the door. She might call the cops.
No. There was only one path forward, and it was laid out by this cold, controlling woman with dish towels folded like origami and a paddle hanging on the wall. If I wanted even the smallest chance of returning to Claire, I’d have to endure this. Obey. Submit. And play along with Kathy’s sick little games.
My legs felt numb as I crossed the nursery, each step pulling me deeper into something I couldn’t take back. The foam flooring muffled the faint slap of my bare heels, each sound swallowed by the padded tiles. The pastel wallpaper of bunnies, balloons, and smiling suns seemed to sneer at me, mocking every inch of my surrender.
“Up.” she said, patting the padding of the over-sized changing table.
Again, I didn’t argue. Didn’t glare. Didn’t even let out a sigh. The sting across my backside and the bitter soap still burning the corners of my mouth reminded me what happened when I tried. My tongue was raw, my lips tingled, every swallow still tasting of bitter suds.
The changing table waited, its plastic mat gleaming in the light. I hoisted myself up, the crinkle sharp in my ears as my shoulders pressed into the padding.
The mat was cold at first, slick with disinfectant. My knees bent awkwardly upward, legs unsure of where to rest. I tried to cover myself, but Kathy reached out and pushed my hands aside. “No need to be shy now,” she said. “You’ll be seeing a lot of this table.”
I flinched. Not at the words, but at the tone. It was businesslike. Bored, even. As if this wasn’t new. As if I wasn’t the first man she’d broken in here.
She reached under the table and pulled out a bottle of cream, a container of powder, and a thick pack of wipes. She lined them up neatly like tools on a tray. The reality of it hit all at once. The sickly-sweet scent of powder. The plastic. The size. The finality. All of it real. All of it meant for me. I swallowed. “Pweez…” I whispered.
Kathy turned her head just slightly, her expression unreadable.
I worried she’d go get the soap again, so I tried to remember how to properly ‘say’ my words, while still trying to advocate for myself. I turned my voice up a few octaves.
“I don’t need this. I’ll be good. I pwomise! I’ll follow your wules! Whatever you say. Just… not this.” I motioned toward the diaper, shame blooming through every word. “You don’t have to do this...”
She sighed, but not like she was annoyed, like she was amused.
“Sweetheart,” she said. “If any of that were true, Claire wouldn’t have needed to send you here.”
I shook my head, desperate. “But I get it now! I weally do! I’ll pwoove it! You don’t have to put me in a diaper wike…wike some—”
“Like someone who needs one?” she cut in.
I blinked. My breath caught.
“That’s what this is,” she said calmly, picking up the cream and twisting the lid open. “Consequence. Correction. You don’t earn big-boy privileges by begging for them. You earn them by proving you can handle them.”
She reached for the package of wipes, popping it open and pulling several out with a quick fwip fwip fwip!
“You can,” she said. “And you will.”
She didn’t wait. Her hands were already on me. She wiped me down like I was nothing. Like I wasn’t a person, but a job. Something routine. The wipes were cold and humiliatingly thorough. She moved with clinical efficiency, ignoring every wiggle of my body, every shameful reaction.
She didn’t skip a single inch. My cock twitched when she dragged the wipe across it. Not from arousal, but from the awful wrongness of the contact. Then she shifted lower. The wipe cupped under my balls, cold and merciless, her fingers adjusting me with detached precision. How could I possibly have known that when I met my monster of a Mother-in-Law all those years ago, that she would eventually have me on a changing table in a giant nursery with my balls literally in her hand? She lifted, swiped, pressed, making sure every fold of skin was covered. She didn’t hurry. Didn’t soften. Just kept at it, businesslike and calm, like she was wiping down a counter.
None of it needed to be done. She knew it. I knew it. But that was the point. Every swipe told me it didn’t matter what I thought belonged to me. It was hers to handle now, hers to decide what got touched and when.
I turned my face toward the wall, cheeks burning hot enough to scald. My body stiffened in reflex as she cleaned me.
“Relax,” she said without looking up. “You’ll get used to it. This will be happening very often.”
The cream came next. Cold. Thick. Rubbed in with slow, methodical circles.
She didn’t speak while she did it. Just worked. Distant. Like she was painting a wall or sealing a box. Nothing about this was personal to her, but everything about it was personal to me.
And then the moment came.
The sharp crinkle snapped my eyes open. I hadn’t even realized I’d shut them, but the sound cut straight through me. She was holding it now. A swollen, plasticky bulk that seemed far too big for me to ever wear. The pastel prints along the front smiled back at me: balloons, bears, shapes that mocked me with their childish cheer.
“Doesn’t it look cozy?” she asked, voice syrupy sweet. She gave the diaper a little shake so it rustled louder. “You’ll be spending plenty of time in these.” Her eyes flicked to mine, calm and certain. “This is your new potty, Ethan. Where you’ll make all your tinkles and stinky boom-booms.”
I stared as she unfolded it with slow, practiced motions, the thick padding fanning wide, ready to swallow me whole. My stomach twisted with dread. I wanted to look away, but couldn’t.
She lifted my legs. There was a strength to her, even now. Her arms weren’t forceful, but they were unyielding. She raised my hips with practiced ease, slid the waiting diaper beneath me, and lowered me back down.
I landed on it with a muffled crinkle that echoed in my head louder than anything else. It felt thick. Cushioned. Like something meant to absorb shame, not just waste.
Then came the powder. Cool bursts rained over me, settling on my skin like fresh snow in the morning. She shook the bottle slowly, deliberately, dusting me like one of her sponge cakes she was coating with powdered sugar.
“There we are,” she said, her tone cherry and mocking all at once. “Soft and clean for bed. No rashes on my watch.” She tapped the bottle once against her palm. “Best to keep you fresh, since you’ll be sitting in wet diapers more often than not.”
The words made my stomach twist.
She set the bottle aside, dust still clinging to her fingers, and spread me open one last time to be sure the folds were covered.
Then she drew the front panel up. I watched helplessly as the thick plastic rose higher, climbing my belly, swallowing me inch by inch until my cock disappeared beneath it. My manhood erased and replaced with something much more infantile.
Her hand smoothed the front flat, palm firm. The sight was surreal: a bulky, gleaming white front stretched tight across my waist, little pastel prints dancing across it like a billboard of shame.
The first ripped free of its backing with a sharp snap and was pressed into place with finality. Then the second. Each one tightened the prison around my hips, binding me into it. By the third, I was holding my breath. By the fourth, it was done.
“There,” she murmured, patting the padding of my crotch. “All tucked away where you belong.”
I stared at the ceiling, the sound of the tapes still ringing in my ears, the weight of the diaper hugging my waist and thighs. Not just protection. Not just punishment. A seal.
Her palm gave my thigh a light pat. “Alright, baby boy. Off the table. Time for beddy-byes.”
I lay there for a moment. Motionless. Diapered. There was no more pretending this was a bad dream. No illusion of choice. I didn’t move, in so much shock I was practically paralyzed.
She raised an eyebrow. “Do I need to count?”
The threat was enough. I slid off the table slowly, awkwardly, the diaper spreading my legs with its bulk. It crinkled with every shift of my weight. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t.
The plastic rustled with every step I took, sounding impossibly loud, like a megaphone was attached. It clung to me thick, crinkly, suffocating. The cream still lingered, warm and tacky between my cheeks. The powder clung to the backs of my thighs and puffed upward into a tiny cloud with every step. The diaper wasn’t just thick, it was tight. A close reminder of what I’d been reduced to.
She took my hand and led me slowly across the room, like I was someone learning to walk for the first time. Which I kind of was, the new diaper made me waddle like a tottler. The crib loomed like a cage. White, high-sided, impossibly adult in size but unmistakably infantile. Plastic sheets, a quilt covered in clouds. A plush bear in the corner staring with dead eyes.
She dropped the side rail with a dull click. “In,” she said.
I hesitated, but my legs moved anyway. The diaper’s bulk forced me to clamber awkwardly over the rail. Once inside, she didn’t pause. There were straps attached to each corner. First one wrist. Then the other. Each cuff slid into place with a snug pull and a finalizing snap. Then my ankles. Left. Right.
I could move…barely. But I couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t roll out. Couldn’t remove the diaper even if I tried. Not that I could do anything even if I could, because now she was pulling thick cotton mittens around my hands and cinching them tight. Kathy looked down at me. Her voice was calm, almost tender.
“You’ll be staying put until morning.”
I blinked up at her. “What if I…”
I trailed off, my mouth drying. I didn’t finish the sentence.
What if I have to get up to use the restroom?
But the words hung there. I didn’t need to ask. I already knew.
I shifted in the straps. I’m not sure if it was the diaper or the sheets that crinkled louder.
“Tomorrow we start your routine. But tonight…”
She reached to the corner of the crib, where something larger than normal dangled from a ribbon.
She dangled it in front of me, like a hypnotist. “Tell me what this is.”
My throat was dry. I blinked at her.
She clicked her tongue, smiling faintly. “Mm-mm. That’s too many syllables for a widdle baby like you!!”
She leaned in, her voice dipping into a register that sent a fresh chill crawling down my back.
“To you, it’s a binky. Or a paci. Something nice and simple.”
She held it a little closer.
I hesitated. My lips parted, but no sound came.
She didn’t blink. “Say it, Ethan.”
“…it’s a paci! It’s my…binky.”
She smiled. “Good boy. You’ll get better with practice.”
I swallowed. She lifted the paci to my lips. “And what do you call me?”
I stared at her. My tongue felt thick. “…g-Gam-Gam...”
She smiled again, wider this time. Not cruel. Just… pleased.
The bulb met my lips and she pressed it into place without resistance. My mouth sealed around it. The rubber pushed my tongue down, stealing what little dignity I had left. It was oversized, made for exactly what I now was. What I’d been made into.
“I better find that binky still in your mouth come morning,” she said, her tone gentle and terrifying all at once. “Because if it’s not…”
She smoothed a hand down my forehead like a loving caretaker.
“…you’ll get the soap again.”
My lips clamped down instinctively.
She reached up toward the mobile, flicking it on with a twist of her fingers. It spun to life above me, soft shapes dangling in circles. The melody was gentle, syrupy. Meant to soothe.
Then she stood there, arms folded, watching me a moment longer like she was inspecting her work. Satisfied, she raised the crib rail with a sharp clack. It locked into place.
Then, without ceremony, she reached through the bars and gave the front of my diaper a firm little pat. Not playful. Not affectionate. Just a final, humiliating reminder of where I stood.
“Sweet dreams, little man,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “My daughter is finally waking up from her nightmare. Yours is just beginning.”
She didn’t wait for a response. The light went out. Then silence. Except for the faint lullaby spinning above me…
…and the soft, rhythmic crinkle of my diaper.
I just released Chapter 4 on Subscribestar, so if you're liking where this is going and don't want to wait, head on over there!
